One of the first things I see here in Leicester is a youngish man walking down the street, an open can of beer in one hand, an open packet of Skittles in the other, and a sly grin pushing up his left cheek. Knowingly taking the famous Tom Brown's Schooldays quote and busting it wide open here on the streets of a Midlands town at a mid-morn hour.
So. Okay. Leicester...City Of Dreams. I take that on board and raise my expectations instantly.
Why Leicester? I'm here to rehearse and then appear in a play that was based on a book that led to a film that we all know and remember even if we haven't seen it for years. And that bookplayfilm is One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
The audition was some weeks ago. My agent texts me at 9.21pm: “Possible last minute audition tomorrow, thu for one flew over the cuckoos nest. Will call in morning with info. Fab director, Michael Buffong.” I imagine Phil schmoozing Mr Buffong in some foyer at some interval in some theatre and quietly smile. But tomorrow? I've just started working again in London's glittering West End...on a musical...as a dresser...and have my first laundry call tomorrow! Four hours of washing and drying and sorting and ironing 57 charismatically soiled shirts. When was I going to prepare for an audition?
So I don't. Why do a half-arsed audition when you can do a full-arsed audition?
The next day, I grovel and get half an hour of freedom from the stockings and socks. I rush from the Novello Theatre in London's glittering West End and make it to the American Church on Tottenham Court Road bang on noon. Run downstairs. The guy before me finishes up and exits. I immediately tell myself I'm much better than him. (Habit.) Then, through the glass door, I see the director and some other guy start having a chat. That goes on and on...and on...I'm pacing really obviously on my side of the transparent door. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen are-you-frickin-kidding-me? minutes... I bust open the door.
“Hi. I've never done this in thirty years of auditioning for things, but can we, you know, do the thing? I'm on a break from a new job and I kinda gotta go.”
“When do you have to be back?” asks Mr Buffong.
“About five minutes ago,” I say.
“Yeh, we can do something.” Apparently someone can't find my CV, hence the delay. I don't think my face reacts to this info at all.
“So, have you read the play?”
“Nup. Only found out about this last night. Around 9.30. Been working all day today.”
“Oh. Have you read the scene?”
“Nup.”
“Happy to give it a go?”
“Yep.”
I audition for the role of Dale Harding, a Southerner, uses his hands a lot, slightly effeminate. I can do the accent, the hands come naturally, and I've come across one or two effeminate males. It goes well. Director's eyebrows go up.
“Would you like to do it again?”
“Ahhhhhhh.” So many shirts.... “Okay.” I'm opening the door as I start doing the last line.
“So...is it okay if I...” My head does little jerks referencing everything in the world that exists outside of this room.
“Yep. Thanks.”
I'm offered the part of Mr Dale Harding. I'm surprised but not really. My hand acting was lush. A week later my agent calls saying Mr Buffong would now like to offer me McMurphy. “That would be the ballsy leading big bloke part I didn't even audition for?”
“That's the one,” confirms Phil.
Beer and skittles. Once in a while, apparently, it just is. Hellooooooo Leicester.
I really must start conducting audition workshops...
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